


Statute of Limitations

by VivArney



Category: Mission: Impossible (TV 1988)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-03
Updated: 2016-01-03
Packaged: 2018-05-11 10:57:06
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 14,139
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5624491
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/VivArney/pseuds/VivArney





	Statute of Limitations

Ten years ago:

A gloved hand moved, almost sensually, over the curved  
lid of an antique steamer trunk. Tiny clumps of dust  
danced in the beam of the flashlight as the hand wiped  
the shiny wood clean. "Nice, very nice," a soft voice  
whispered.

"Come on, will ya? Jeeze! This place gives me the  
creeps!"

"Keep your voice down, damn it! If anybody catches us  
down here it's straight to jail."

"If you'd quit drooling over this junk, we'd get outta  
here quicker."

"Do you know how much this `junk' is worth, man?"

"No, and I don't want to know. I just want to get out  
of this basement."

"Calm down, Kirby. I'll be done in a minute. You  
don't want anybody to find the stuff before we can  
come back for it, do you?"

"Hell no! I just...."

"Then, quit squalling! There... finished."

"Now, can we please get outta here?"

"Okay. Come on, Chicken."

"Should we tell Charlie where we put it?" Kirby asked  
as they approached the stairs leading up to the  
kitchen.

"Yeah, I guess so. I figure he can be our back-up in  
case something happens to us."

"Okay... okay."

"You really are spooked aren't you?"

"I've heard the stories about ol' Jasper Crowley."

"Kirby, you're nuts! Jasper Crowley died about a  
hundred years ago."

Kirby tried desperately to shush the larger man as  
they shut the door behind them.

 

The Present:

Jim Phelps pulled his jacket closed and zipped it  
against the icy wind. This was reportedly the coldest  
January on record and, if he hadn't received the  
assignment notice, he would never have ventured out  
into the frigid winter morning at all.

He walked down a short flight of cracked concrete  
steps and into a tailor shop. The place had obviously  
been in business quite a while - judging by the  
outmoded, but still functional, steam press against  
the far wall.

A small man, who looked about as ancient as the press  
he was using, looked up as Phelps approached. "Cun I  
help yuh?"

"I hope so. I'm looking for a hound's tooth jacket."

The old man shrugged. "Don't get much call for  
hound's tooth these days." He muttered to himself for  
a moment, then pointed. "Why don't cha' try that  
first booth. I think you'll find what you're looking  
for in there."

Phelps thanked the older man and walked into the  
indicated booth. There, on a bench against the wall,  
was what he had really come for; a small black box  
about the size of a thick, hard cover book. The box  
was featureless, except for a white oval shaped  
indentation in the lid.

He lowered himself to the bench and laid his thumb  
over the depression. A light swept up and down,  
scanning his thumbprint, there was a soft click and  
the box opened. Inside, Phelps found a small keypad.   
He punched in his code numbers and nodded in  
satisfaction as another part of the box opened to  
reveal a slot, and a shiny metallic disk. He dropped  
the disk into the slot and waited.

A moment later, the familiar deep voice began: "Good  
morning, Jim." The image of a heavyset man appeared  
on the tiny liquid crystal screen set in the top of  
the box. "Ten years ago, Eric Zanner and his partner,  
Kirby Airola...."

The image of a smaller man with longish black hair and  
a worried expression formed on the screen, "slipped  
into the airport warehouse in Montpelier, Vermont and  
left an hour later with over twelve million dollars in  
untraceable currency. The men were eventually caught  
and imprisoned, but the money has never been  
recovered."

"When Zanner died in prison, two and a half years ago,  
Kirby Airola became friends with his cell-mate Martin  
Haslund. Haslund is a known terrorist whose group has  
been responsible for numerous car bombings and  
political assassinations. We believe Airola may have  
promised Haslund some part of the missing money before  
his own death two months ago.

"Your mission, Jim, should you decide to accept it,  
will be to find the stolen money and, more  
importantly, prevent Haslund and his terrorist group  
from getting their hands on it."

Phelps listened through the usual warnings about death  
or capture. Then, after the five second warning, he  
closed the box's lid and left the shop.

As he returned to his car, his mind was whirring  
through a series of scenarios. Choosing bits of this  
one, another element from that one or discarding  
others entirely.

* * * * *

That afternoon, in Jim's living room, he and Grant  
Collier sat discussing their mission.

Nicholas Black arrived, carrying a small suitcase. He  
set the case on the floor and walked over to join  
them. "Sorry I'm late. My plane got delayed over  
Phoenix," he explained.

"No problem, Nicholas," Grant said. "We've got to  
wait for Shannon and Max to get back, anyway."

"And where are they?"

"Picking up a set of police reports. They'll be back  
in a few minutes," Phelps answered. "Have a seat."

Nicholas got himself a cup of coffee, then sat down on  
one of the overstuffed sofas. "If it weren't for  
Martin Haslund, this mission would seem almost too  
easy," he said, looking down at the layer of papers  
spread out on the coffee table.

"It may be, Nicholas," Phelps agreed. "The most  
difficult thing may be locating the stolen money  
before Haslund does. And, if necessary, getting it  
away from him, if he does find it."

"That's not going to be easy," Grant put in, a worried  
expression on his face. "Haslund's a heavyweight."

"That's true. His "good ole boy" act is just that, an  
act. He's a very brilliant, very dangerous man. We  
know he's been involved in everything from gun running  
to drugs and he doesn't make many mistakes."

Grant nodded and tapped the computer keyboard set in  
the top of the coffee table. "This came in from I.M.  
research while you were stuck in Phoenix, Nicholas."

A page of information flashed up on the screen.  
Nicholas' eyes went wide with disbelief as he read the  
words. "Arrested twelve times for murder? No  
convictions! Jim, that's got to be some sort of  
record. incredible! But how did he do it?"

"His father's the leader of the local branch of the Ku  
Klux Klan," Grant answered, "and has been for the last  
forty years. It's almost certain his father, or some  
of his father's men, have either bought out the  
juries, or threatened them into their verdicts."

"He sounds like a wonderful father," Nicholas sighed.

"We've got to find a way to take Haslund out of the  
picture, anyway," Phelps began. "Without him, his  
terrorist group will fall apart... cut off the head of  
a snake and the body dies."

Grant nodded his agreement.

Nicholas changed the subject. "From what I read on  
the plane, Airola and Zanner were more lucky than they  
realized," he said.

"Right," Grant said. "The vault they robbed normally  
holds about ten thousand dollars - the airport wasn't  
insured for more than that amount in that particular  
area - but that night, there was a major blizzard in  
D.C. and the plane that was supposed to come for the  
money never got off the ground, so the money was  
stored there overnight. Airola and Zanner could never  
have known the money had been moved there for  
safekeeping less than three hours before they broke  
into the vault."

"Why were they transporting that much money?"

"It was confiscated during a drug bust," Phelps  
answered. "D.E.A. agents were taking it to Washington  
for a special Senate Inquiry into the drug cartels."

Grant grinned. "They were showing off for the Budget  
Committee."

"The guards were killed, I assume."

Phelps shook his head. "They knocked them out with  
their own guns and tied them up, but there was no  
permanent damage."

"That's why they got such a light sentence?"

Grant and Phelps nodded.

"Have we got any clues where they might have hidden  
it?"

Grant shook his head. "Not really. We know they were  
arrested at the Richmond Inn, but we don't know  
whether they would have taken the chance of hiding the  
money there." He handed Nicholas a floorplan of the  
old inn.

"The inn was built as a private home sometime in the  
1750's," he went on. He checked a book lying open on  
the table. "There were a couple of minor skirmishes  
near it during the Revolutionary War and, supposedly,  
George Washington and his wife stayed there a couple  
of times before the War. It was turned into an inn  
sometime after the Civil War, around 1870. It's also  
reputed to be haunted. An international group of  
spiritualists have made reservations to spend this  
weekend there to look for evidence of the ghost, or  
ghosts."

"What do you have in mind, Jim?" Nicholas asked.

Phelps handed the dark haired agent a small  
photograph. "Notice anything?"

Nicholas looked into the face of a man about his own  
age with longish black hair and a bushy mustache. A  
pair of heavy gold framed spectacles enlarged the  
other man's dark eyes. Aside from a few slight  
differences - the other man's cheeks were a little  
thinner and his eyes and nose were a bit rounder - he  
and this man could be brothers or, at the very least,  
cousins. It wouldn't take a mask or elaborate makeup  
to pose as this man if it was necessary. "Who is he?"

 

"Charles Airola, Kirby Airola's son. Haslund sent him  
a note last week, telling him to meet him at the  
Richmond Inn on the tenth at noon."

"That's less than two days from now," Nicholas noted  
with a frown. "Does Charles Airola know where to find  
the money?"

"No. He claims his father offered to tell him just  
after the robbery, but then changed his mind when  
Charles tried to get him to return the money. Haslund  
may think Charles does know where it is and that may  
explain why he's contacted him after all this time,"  
Grant answered.

Phelps took a deep breath and stood. "Charlie got fed  
up with all the publicity his father was getting and  
joined the Peace Corps. He left for Ethiopia five  
years ago. We've spoken to him, but he still insists  
he doesn't know where the money is. He doesn't like  
it, but he's agreed to stay with an IMF team, out of  
the way, long enough for us to find the money and deal  
with Haslund."

"So, I pose as Charlie Airola?" Nicholas said, with a  
nod.

Phelps nodded, but looked worried. "Just remember,  
Haslund won't hesitate to kill you if he breaks your  
cover and since you'll be spending a lot of time with  
him, you're going to have to be especially careful,  
Nicholas. Max or Grant will be backing you up, but  
they can't be too close."

Nicholas nodded. "What will the rest of you be  
doing?"

"Trying to find the missing money," Grant answered.   
"If we're lucky, we'll find it before Haslund does."

"Let's hope so. That money could cause a lot of pain  
for a lot of innocent people," Phelps agreed.

Nicholas nodded and leaned closer to study the  
floorplan of the old building.

* * * * *

Jim Phelps sat alone at an oak table in the Richmond  
Inn's painstakingly renovated dining room. He had  
registered as James Boyd, a freelance reporter for a  
small tabloid out of Denver. An IMF agent was in  
position to verify his credentials if anyone got too  
curious but, with a flock of spiritualists and  
psychics running around, he seriously doubted anyone  
would bother. He chewed his pot roast thoughtfully as  
he looked around.

The room had been restored to its pre-Revolution  
glory. Beautifully carved chairs circled the heavy,  
square tables, a fire blazed in the room's brick  
fireplace, and the waitresses were all in period  
costumes. It was all very impressive. A tall black  
man in boots and overalls leaned on a stepladder as he  
did something to one of the heating vents in the far  
corner. Phelps half-smiled, recognizing the younger  
man.

Grant had arrived that morning and was now posing as  
the Richmond Inn's new, very temporary, handyman. The  
regular man had taken a sudden and, judging by the  
look of the old building, well deserved vacation with  
his family, courtesy of the IMF, thanks to a  
"sweepstakes" neither the man nor his wife remembered  
entering.

Phelps could also see Max and Shannon from his  
position. The young people were posing as a newlywed  
couple. They sat huddled at a small table in the  
corner of the dining room, their heads together as  
they looked over the menu. 

'They do look rather good together,' he thought as he  
took a sip of the rich, dark ale he had been served.   
He wasn't about to let himself get drunk, but the ale  
was one of the inn's specialties and the waitress had  
actually looked hurt when he had tried to order iced  
tea with his meal.

"Hello, Mr. Boyd," a woman's soft, slightly accented  
voice greeted from his right.

Phelps turned to see a small woman with thick, black  
hair coiled on top of her head. "Yes?"

She held out a tiny hand. "I'm Valerie Kendra. I'm  
sorry to disturb your dinner...."

Phelps glanced down at his almost empty plate. "No,  
I'm finished. Please , sit down."

She hesitated. "You're sure?"

He nodded and gestured to the chair across from him.   
"Please."

She flashed him a smile and perched herself on the  
seat of the chair. "I've been told you're a  
reporter."

"That's correct."

"Here to 'expose the frauds for what they are'?"

Phelps shook his head. "I only write what I see, Miss  
Kendra."

"Then you believe?"

"I didn't say that."

"Ah...'give me proof and I might believe it.' Is that  
your position?"

Phelps took a long, slow sip from his coffee cup.   
“I'll look, investigate, and write what I learn, Miss  
Kendra. My personal opinions don't enter into it," he  
explained.

She smiled. "Perhaps I can convince you."

Phelps chuckled, and drained his coffee cup.   
"Perhaps," he agreed.

* * * * *

"Of course, if you're looking for hard evidence of a  
classic haunting; you should read William Chesterton's  
piece on The Moaning Monk of Oberst Rectory," Valerie  
Kendra was saying as she and Jim Phelps stood talking  
in the inn's lobby, later that evening.

Phelps half-nodded to Max as the tall Australian  
mounted the inn's carpeted stairs. The white haired  
IMF agent scribbled something on his small note pad,  
then shoved pad and pen into his jacket pocket.   
"You've done quite a bit of research on hauntings," he  
said, with a smile.

She chuckled. "I'm not quite as rabid as Mrs.  
Samuelson, if that's what you mean, but, yes, I've  
always been fascinated by spooks, spirits and  
spectres. I think it's particularly interesting to  
learn the histories of the people involved."

"You mean the ghosts," Phelps said as the two of them  
ascended the stairs.

"They were people at one time, Mr. Boyd," she reminded  
him, politely. "For example: the spirit that haunts  
the Richmond Inn, Jasper Crowley, lived in this house  
for over forty years and died cursing his wife."

"Ah, yes, I've heard the story. She ran off with his  
stable hand, didn't she?"

"His hostler -- stable master. William Hartliep was,  
according to the legend, a very handsome man." She  
rounded a corner slightly ahead of Phelps. "Oh!"

He quickly moved forward to see what had upset her.   
Max was lying, face down, on the faded carpet less  
than ten feet away. Phelps moved forward and knelt  
beside him. His heart was beating wildly as he  
carefully rolled Max over onto his back and laid a  
hand on his chest.

"He's alive," he whispered as he breathed a sigh of  
relief.

"I'll go call an ambulance," she offered.

Phelps glanced up at her. He had to be careful. He  
couldn't let his concern for his injured team member  
blow their cover. "No. I think his wife's down in  
the lounge, why don't you get her first. I'll stay  
here with him," he said. There was already a large  
bruise forming on Max's forehead, but thankfully, no  
blood in sight.

Not long after she had disappeared down the stairs,  
Max groaned and started to sit up.

"Easy, Max," Phelps warned. "Lie still for a minute."

"I'm okay," Max mumbled. He touched the swiftly  
rising lump gingerly and winced.

"What happened?"

The Australian took a deep breath, sat up and leaned  
his broad shoulders against the nearest wall. "I  
don't know... somebody hit me... threw me into the  
wall."

"Yes, I can see that, but who did it?"

Max groaned again. "I don't know."

Shannon rushed up to them, followed closely by a tall,  
fat man and Valerie Kendra. The spiritualist  
introduced the man as Jake King, the town doctor.

King examined the groggy agent and advised Shannon to  
put her 'husband' to bed and to call his office if he  
started feeling nauseous or dizzy. One of the inn's  
employees appeared and he and Phelps helped the blond  
man to his room.

"Who hit you?" Grant asked, as Max stretched his long  
form out on the bed and frowned up at the tiled  
ceiling.

"I didn't even get a glimpse of him," Max complained.   
He tried to sit up, then, deciding it wasn't such a  
good idea after all, he dropped back onto the  
pillows. "I was just walking down the hall and the  
next thing I knew, Jim was trying to bring me around."

"It must have been someone from one of the rooms,"  
Phelps put in. "I was standing in the lobby, no one  
followed him up from there."

"I'll check the registry," Grant offered.

Phelps nodded his agreement. "Max, you go on to bed,  
get some rest."

"I'll keep an eye on him," Shannon promised.

"I'm all right!" Max insisted. He didn't like all the  
attention he was getting.

Shannon frowned, worry in her pretty face. "Jim, do  
you think the mission's been blown?"

Phelps shrugged. "I don't know," he admitted  
quietly. "But until we know better we'll have to  
assume it's a possibility.

"Haslund'll be here tomorrow. We've got to be ready,"  
Grant said.

"I'll be ready," Max assured them.

Phelps smiled at Max, then followed Grant out of the  
room and shut the door behind them. Valerie Kendra  
was waiting for him at the top of the stairs.

"How is he?" she asked.

"Fine, fine. He's got a pretty bad bump and a nasty  
headache, but he'll be back to normal in the morning."

 

"That's good."

They walked down the hallway in silence. Finally,  
Phelps said good-night and entered his room.

* * * * *

Grant sighed tiredly as he dropped the heavy tool belt  
he had been wearing all day onto the small table near  
the door. He hadn't expected that his cover as the  
inn's temporary maintenance man would involve so much  
actual maintenance. He had just spent the last hour  
and a half trying to track down a mysterious leak in  
the ceiling of one of the guest's rooms.

The only positive aspect was that he was getting a  
perfect chance to search the old inn thoroughly  
without arousing anyone's attention, but, after a day  
of leaky faucets, broken pipes and a clogged toilet or  
two, he was more than ready for a good night's sleep.

He showered quickly and crawled into bed, then spent a  
few minutes crossing off the sections of the inn he  
had searched on his mental blueprint before he let  
himself fall asleep.

Suddenly, he found himself bolting out of bed! March  
music was blaring out of the speaker of an antique  
radio across the room. Drums boomed! Cymbals  
crashed! Grant's head felt as if it were about to  
explode! He put his hands over his ears and walked  
over to try to turn the radio off. His head throbbed  
and the walls seemed to vibrate as he twisted the  
volume knob left and right. He tried turning the  
radio off and even changing the frequency, but nothing  
he did seemed to have any effect on the thundering  
waves of sound.

He winced as he bent to pull the heavy, wooden cabinet  
out from the wall and lifted the cord up off the  
floor. He traced the direction it went, hoping to  
find out where the still blaring device was plugged  
into the wall.

As he traced the wire, he half expected some sort of  
protest from either one of the inn's employees or the  
manager but none came... yet.

Finally, his persistence paid off, he reached the end  
of the heavy black cable to find it had no plug and  
hadn't for a very long time. Two bare copper wires,  
tinged with green, were sticking out of the insulating  
material, which itself, was swollen and sticky with  
age.

The music changed as he stood staring at the cord, it  
got softer and he cringed as he recognized the piece:   
"The Blue Danube." Inwardly, he admitted he had  
always enjoyed that particular melody, but hearing it  
as a kazoo solo was an entirely different matter. He  
was glad that, at the very least, the volume had gone  
down considerably; he could stand to be near the radio  
now.

He crossed the room and retrieved his tool belt. In a  
few moments, he had the back cover of the radio off  
and had set to work extracting tubes, and wires.

As dawn broke, hours later, he frowned into the now  
empty cabinet. Bits and pieces of the antique radio  
were lying in small piles on the carpeted floor, but  
the music played on, going from bad to worse. The  
piece playing just then, was a very bad Muzak version  
of "The Last Train to Clarksville." There was no  
logical reason for the music to continue when the  
radio had been reduced to its smallest components, but  
obviously whoever, or whatever, was causing it did not  
function via logic.

His alarm clock sounded and he looked up for the first  
time in hours. He hadn't realized he had been at it  
so long! Suddenly, as abruptly as it had begun, the  
music stopped and the room was in silence for the  
first time all night.

Grant sighed in relief and stood, stretching his numb  
legs and back. God, he was tired! Well, he had  
missed a night's sleep before. He would live. He  
silently promised his tired body an early night as he  
turned the radio's cabinet onto its front and started  
tossing the bits and pieces into it. He would try to  
put the radio back together before he and the team  
left.

* * * * *

Jim Phelps yawned and stretched as he stepped into the  
steaming shower. He hoped a long, hot shower would do  
him some good. On some missions, things just happened  
too quickly to indulge in even that simple pleasure;  
but this morning, a very long shower was an absolute  
necessity. Martin Haslund was due to arrive at noon  
and he had to have a clear head.

He hadn't slept well at all. He had gone to bed early  
enough, but he hadn't been able to stay there. Just  
as he started to drift off to sleep - two very large  
and very cold drops of water landed on the back of his  
neck. He had gotten out of bed and turned on the lamp  
to examine the ceiling and discover the origin of the  
drops - after all, any building more than two hundred  
years old was entitled to a leak or two -  
unfortunately, however, there was no evidence of a  
leak tonight, or any other night for that matter.

He had been puzzled, but he had turned the lamp off  
and slipped back between the covers. He hadn't been  
the least bit surprised when it happened a second  
time, but after the icy droplets hit him a third time,  
he had given up on the bed entirely and, taking the  
heavy blankets with him, he had settled himself in the  
room's overstuffed lounge chair.

Now he was paying the price. His muscles ached, and  
though the water was definitely helping, he knew he  
would be sore for most of the day. `Jim Phelps,  
you're getting too old for all this,' he told himself  
as he stepped out from under the spray and reached for  
a towel.

* * * * *

When Nicholas arrived at the small Vermont airport,  
the next morning, he found it had snowed sometime  
during the night. He frowned as he got into a taxi,  
the snow would undoubtedly make their search that much  
more difficult.

He was wearing jeans, a flannel shirt, and a thick  
denim jacket under a bulky sheepskin coat. He had  
chosen his wardrobe carefully. From the pictures he  
had seen, Charles Airola tended to wear more casual  
clothing than Nicholas favored.

Nicholas liked the inn's lobby as soon as he entered.   
It looked more like someone's living room than the  
stark, functional, characterless lobbies he had seen  
at other hotels.

An entire wall was made up of natural fieldstones  
around a fireplace with a beautifully carved mantle.   
A long, heavy sofa, four matching lounge chairs and  
small end tables formed a large, cozy looking circle  
around the hearth. There were four large picture  
windows made of sheets of thermal glass and a set of  
French doors that looked out onto a snow covered patio  
that must be a pleasant place in other seasons.

Off to his left, stood a counter with a small key rack  
behind it. A too pretty girl, her looks common to all  
receptionists world over, greeted him cheerfully as he  
approached. "Are you checking in?"

He nodded, removing his outer coat and dropping it  
onto the small case by his feet. "I am Charles  
Airola. I believe you have a reservation for me."

"I'll check."

A moment later, she produced a card and pushed it  
forward for him to sign. "We've put you in room 203,  
Mr. Airola," she told him and produced a heavy, square  
handled key. "Eric?"

Nicholas gave her a smile, took the key and reached  
down to pick up his small suitcase. A uniformed  
bellman appeared at his elbow.

"Could I help you with that, sir?" the bellman asked,  
politely.

Nicholas shook his head. "No. Thank you. I can  
manage."

The bellman nodded and led the agent to his room  
without another word. Nicholas half-nodded to the  
handyman who passed them carrying a wooden ladder in  
the other direction as they walked down the wide  
corridor. Nicholas was led to a small, but well  
appointed, room on the inn's second floor.

"I hope you'll enjoy your stay with us, Mr. Airola,"  
the bellman said, without much enthusiasm; he had been  
at this job too long to really mean any of the  
management's "scripted" guest chatter. Nicholas gave  
the younger man a couple of dollars and a curt nod and  
the bellman left him.

The first thing he did was remove the glasses he had  
been wearing, the lenses were much stronger than those  
he was used to, and his eyes were starting to bother  
him. Grant had done what he could to lower the power  
of the lenses, but there was only so much he could do  
and still have them look like those Charles Airola  
wore, and they had to match. Kirby had kept a photo  
of his son in his prison cell. It had been a very bad  
candid shot, but the glasses had been prominently  
displayed on the nose of the grinning Charles.

The glasses distorted things just enough to make  
sudden movement dangerous and he felt just a little  
dizzy the entire time he wore them. His vision  
restored to normal, he looked around the room. It was  
straight out of another century. He tossed his coat  
onto a wing back chair near the window. The bed had  
four carved corner posts with a ball about the size of  
a grapefruit at the top of each waist high post.   
There was a small table that doubled as a desk  
standing off to one side. The only incongruity was a  
modern bathroom just inside the heavy wooden door, but  
that did not detract from the total effect the owners  
were trying to create.

He laid the small bag he had been carrying on the  
desk, took out his shaving kit and turned toward the  
small bathroom. He stopped suddenly, his dark eyes  
going wide with disbelief.

A form filled the doorway. A thin spinning column of  
whirling luminescence. It was taller than he was by  
more than a foot. His eyes winced away from the pale  
brightness. One of Grant's holograms, it had to be,  
he reasoned, but... suddenly... he wasn't so certain.   
The thing seemed to be the color of... but no... there  
were no words to describe that penetrating shade  
accurately. The color was just part of the aura the  
thing gave off. 

A flowing swirl composed of elements his senses could  
never begin to categorize. It was not hot, cold,  
light, color, sound or smell. Nicholas' nostrils  
flared and his stomach heaved as his senses tried,  
unsuccessfully, to translate the spinning figure into  
something his mind could understand. There was an odd  
smell surrounding him that was not really a smell. It  
seemed to be focused more in his mind than his nose.   
The hairs at the back of his neck and his forearms  
tingled as a current of - something - filled the room  
like smoke, sour and choking.

He tried to take a breath, but there didn't seem to be  
enough air in the room; almost as if the figure  
floating across the room had sucked it all away.

Then, the thing in the doorway began to change. It  
thickened and shrank... condensing. And, if it's  
earlier form hadn't been difficult enough to make  
sense of, this new form seemed far worse, perhaps  
because there was now a monstrous suggestion of a  
human face. Two burning blue spots took shape, like  
the low flames of a dying fire, and stared,  
unblinking, at him.

Nicholas wanted to move -- wanted to turn away from  
those spots of blazing blue -- but his muscles refused  
to obey and he remained frozen in place.

He never knew just how long he and the glowing image  
stared silently at each other, but, after what seemed  
like hours, there were three sharp raps on the door  
leading to the corridor. That was the code signalling  
the arrival of one of the IMF team members. Probably  
Grant, since he was the only member of the group who  
could wander the inn without suspicion.

The cold flame flared brightly, then vanished.   
Nicholas found he could breathe again, in fact, the  
sudden inrush of air was almost painful and he coughed  
dryly. The raps were repeated as he dropped heavily  
into the chair.

"Come in," he croaked.

Grant's smiling face appeared as he opened the door,  
but the smile vanished as he caught sight of his  
friend's pale face.

"You okay?" he asked. He sat down on the edge of the  
bed, concern in his dark eyes.

Nicholas nodded. "I thought for a moment I'd set off  
one of your traps... that hologram... was a bit too...  
convincing."

"Hologram? Nicholas, I wouldn't put any "ghoulies" in  
our rooms without warning you. In fact, I didn't even  
bring the projectors along on this trip."

"You're sure?" Nicholas knew it was a stupid question  
as soon as he asked it, but, for some reason, he had  
to hear the answer.

"Positive," he assured him.

Nicholas took a deep slow breath and wiped the thin  
coating of perspiration off his face.

"Hey, you don't look so good." Grant said, very  
worried now. He ducked into the bathroom and returned  
with a glass of water and handed it to the other man.

Between sips of water, Nicholas quietly told him about  
his visitor.

"Wow," Grant breathed. He motioned for Nicholas to  
remain seated while he searched the room. It didn't  
take long, the room was small and far from elaborately  
furnished. "Nothing," he reported, finally. He stood  
in the middle of the room and stared up at the blank  
ceiling, a frown on his face. "I guess old Jasper  
decided to pay you a visit."

"Who?"

"The inn's resident ghost. He's supposed to be  
hanging around, looking for his wife," Grant  
explained.

"That isn't funny."

Grant didn't tell Nicholas about his encounter with  
the radio the night before. He could tell the other  
man was in no mood to hear it.

"Yeah, I'm sorry." He handed Nicholas a small piece  
of paper. "I was coming to give you our room  
numbers."

"I'm glad you did. Where is everybody?"

"The 'newlyweds' went for a 'romantic stroll in the  
woods' and Jim's talking to one of the spiritualists.   
According to the records, she was here when Airola and  
Zanner were arrested. She may be able to tell us  
something. I was on my way to the attic."

Nicholas nodded. Everything was going according to  
plan. The spiritualist could be a bonus - if she  
remembered anything. "I'll go have a look around the  
lobby."

"You might want to stay up here for a while. Haslund  
arrived about an hour ago. I'm sure he'll be trying  
to contact you."

"Right, see you later."

Grant clapped the other man on the shoulder. "Good  
luck."

* * * * *

Max Harte and Shannon Reed held hands as they walked  
leisurely along the narrow path in the woods near the  
inn. Despite last night's snow, it was a beautiful  
cloudless morning. They were supposed to be a young  
couple on their honeymoon and whenever they were in  
sight of other people they played things up a bit.   
What they were really doing was searching the area  
discreetly. If Airola and Zanner had hidden the money  
here, as Jim believed, it could be in one of the  
out-buildings near the inn.

Max helped Shannon over a fallen log and frowned.   
"You know, if they buried it out here, we'll never  
find it."

"I just hope the others are having better luck."

"Come on, let's go poke around in that barn over  
there."

* * * * *

 

Nicholas jumped as the phone rang. The bell was  
shrill and demanding in the quiet of his room. He  
mentally chided himself for being so jittery and  
picked up the receiver. "Hello?"

"Charles Airola?"

"Yes."

"Airola, this is Martin Haslund, I was your father's  
cell-mate when he was in prison."

"I know, I read your note. And?"

"Well, I...."

"Yes?"

"Look, could we get together for a drink or  
something?"

"I don't drink with strangers."

"I'd like to discuss the business arrangement your  
father and I made while we were, well, roommates."

"Any agreement you may have made with my father in  
prison was cancelled the day he died," Nicholas  
protested, he didn't want to appear too eager.

"Your father promised me a share of the twelve  
million. Now, I know where...."

'Time to join in the fun,' Nicholas decided. He  
gasped. "You know where to find the money?"

"Let's just say we could be sitting right on top of  
it, if you know what I mean."

"Where?"

"I don't know... exactly... but your father did make  
some comments that, in the right context, could be  
considered clues."

"Such as?"

"Not over the phone."

"Where then?"

"We'll talk in the lounge, in... ten minutes?"

"All right," Nicholas agreed. "Ten minutes." He hung  
up the phone and a moment later dialed Phelps' room.   
When the older man answered, Nicholas told him about  
the meeting.

"I'll contact Grant," Phelps said.

Nicholas replaced the receiver and sighed heavily.   
"Here we go," he muttered. He checked the false  
mustache he had put on earlier, polished and put on  
the glasses, picked up his denim jacket and slipping  
his room key into his jeans' pocket, he stepped out  
into the hall.

Max was lying in a heap on the floor. Shocked,  
Nicholas ran to crouch beside the other man. 

"Max?" he whispered, carefully rolling the other man  
over onto his back.

The blond man looked up at him groggily. "Hi."

"Hi? What the hell happened?"

"Somebody hit me."

Nicholas looked up and down the corridor. There was  
no sign of anyone who could have attacked Max. What  
bothered him more than anything else was that he  
hadn't heard anything. He turned back to his friend.   
"Are you all right?"

Max nodded. "I'm beginning to get used to this."

"Huh?"

"Same thing happened last night."

"What? You're joking."

"Never mind... never mind," Max mumbled as Nicholas  
helped him to his feet.

"You're sure you're all right?"

"Yeah -- fine," Max insisted. "Go on, Haslund's  
waiting."

* * * * *

Nicholas stepped into the lounge a few moments later,  
ordered coffee and took a seat in one of the deep  
chairs off in one corner near where Grant was working.

"Be careful, sir," Grant advised. "They just mopped  
under that table." He pointed to another table. "Why  
don't you sit over here?"

Nicholas nodded and moved to the table Grant had  
indicated. He sipped at his coffee and looked out the  
window at the snow covered woods. He wondered who had  
attacked Max, and why? Had their presence been  
discovered? Had the mission been blown? The  
questions nagged at him, but he tried to put them  
aside.

After a few moments, a tall man almost as big as Max  
walked in and came over to Nicholas' table. He was  
wearing jeans, a ski sweater, a leather jacket and  
boots. "Charles Airola?"

Nicholas looked up. "Yes."

Haslund smiled. "You're Airola's son all right...  
look just like him."

The IMF agent felt relief flow through him. His  
disguise was working. "Thanks," he said and motioned  
for Haslund to have a seat.

"I was sorry to hear about your father," Haslund  
offered.

Nicholas knew, from his research, that a rift had  
developed between Kirby Airola and his son. A rift  
which had been caused by Kirby's refusal to return the  
money he had stolen. "Yes... well," he said quietly.   
"I intend to give the money...."

"I know what you're planning to do, Airola, but we've  
got to find it first."

"You said you know where the money is."

Haslund shook his head. "I have some ideas."

Nicholas picked up his cup. "Such as?"

"Your father had a bad habit -- he talked in his  
sleep. I heard him sometimes."

Nicholas leaned forward.

"He'd say things like 'Why down here?', 'I don't like  
it down here!', and 'If they catch us down here.'   
It's easy when you think about it."

"So, they hid the money somewhere underground,"  
Nicholas mumbled. "You've checked the basement, of  
course?"

"Yeah, before you got in. Nothing down there but a  
furnace," Haslund agreed. "But there are at least  
five caves less than a mile from here."

Nicholas took several slow swallows from his coffee  
cup and peered out the frost covered window at the  
white capped mountains beyond the woods. The IMF team  
knew about the caves nearby, of course, but they had  
dismissed them early on in their investigation.   
Zanner and Airola had been a pair of sedentary  
businessmen, both too badly out of shape to be  
crawling around in the cold damp caves. Those caves  
had also been fully explored by the local spelunking  
club and the police at the time of Zanner and Airola's  
arrest. Nothing had been found then, or in the years  
since. Jim had decided to have the team confine their  
search to the inn and its out-buildings. Nicholas  
wasn't about to pass this piece of information on to  
Haslund, though. If the terrorist wanted to crawl  
around in the caves, Nicholas wasn't going to stop  
him. His primary job was to keep Haslund as far away  
from the inn as possible while the other team members  
continued their search.

Haslund pulled a folded piece of heavy paper from his  
jacket pocket and spread it out between them on the  
table.

"What's this?" Nicholas asked as he leaned forward to  
look at the crude, hand drawn map.

"I got this from a man with the local spelunker's  
club," Haslund explained. He pointed to one of the  
two entrances. "There are two good possibilities.   
I've got the lights and the other gear we'll need up  
in my room. I figure we'll have time to check the  
nearest one this afternoon and the other one tomorrow  
morning."

Nicholas pointed to several other markings. "What  
about these?"

Haslund shook his head. "This one's no good, it's got  
a fifty foot drop just inside the entrance."

"A mine shaft?"

Haslund shrugged. "Doesn't matter, it's been boarded  
up since before the Civil War." He spent a good part  
of the next few moments pointing out other locations  
and explaining why they were unsuitable. "So, are you  
ready?"

Nicholas nodded. "Yes, I think so. I'd like to go  
up and get my coat, though. It's a bit cold out."

Haslund stood. "I'll get the gear and meet you in the  
lobby."

* * * * *

Grant tried to hold back a sneeze as he crawled up  
into the inn's large attic. Thick dust covered the  
wooden floor and he guessed that no-one had been up  
here in years. He looked around the room. Several  
antique trunks stood along one wall, all were bathed  
in dust. Massive rough beams stretched up more than  
seven feet over his head. Insulation had been nailed  
up between the heavy beams but very little had been  
done to 'finish' the room since it was merely a  
storage area. That seemed odd, in most houses built  
around the same time, the attic was often used as  
servant's quarters, if nothing else.

Later, as he poked around, he learned the reason the  
room was now used as storage. Slightly charred floor  
boards told the entire story. There had been a fire  
up here sometime in the house's two hundred year  
history. He flicked a small piece off one of the  
burnt areas, then felt along one of new floor boards.   
Judging by the dust and droppings, it had also been a  
very long time ago. There may have been rooms up here  
after all, back when Jasper Crowley and his wife had  
inhabited this house. His curiosity satisfied, he  
smiled and stood to examine some of the abandoned  
trunks stored in the corners.

The first trunk he opened held only delicate,  
age-stained clothing from more than a hundred years  
before. As he examined it, some lace on a wedding  
dress crumbled in his fingers. He carefully laid the  
clothing back into the trunk and closed it.

A second trunk held weapons from other eras. All fine  
specimens despite their thick coating of rust. He  
lifted an ornately carved dueling pistol from the  
trunk and examined it carefully. "Any gun collector  
would pay a fortune for a piece like this," he  
muttered as he turned the pistol over in his hands,  
feeling the smooth wood and cool metal before he  
replaced it in the trunk.

He wondered for a moment whether Zanner and Airola  
might have converted their stolen money into these  
firearms, then dismissed the idea. Surely, they would  
have found some way to protect their investment, not  
leave it up in an attic to rust.

He closed the trunk and moved to another, smaller one  
in the far corner. Inside, he found clothing and toys  
from some child's nursery. An inscription carved on a  
small metal plate set into the lid of the trunk read:

Michael Thomas Crowley, 1870 - 1875

Grant frowned. Had this Michael Crowley died as a  
boy? Of course, if he hadn't, he must have died by  
now, the trunk was more than a hundred years old, but  
had its owner grown old with it? Somehow, finding the  
curt inscription on a trunk stuck away in a lonely  
corner of the attic troubled him. He closed the lid  
and patted the top of the trunk softly, almost  
reverently, before he went back to his search.

* * * * *

"You know, I'm really getting tired of this," Max  
muttered, rubbing the bruised spot on his forehead  
gingerly.

Shannon, seated across from him at one of the tables  
in the dining room, flashed him a sympathetic smile.   
"I guess twice in twelve hours is a bit much."

Max held up three fingers. "Try three."

"Three?"

"The last time was when Nicholas was on his way down  
to meet with Haslund."

Shannon winced. "I don't know what to say, Max," she  
admitted. "Grant checked the registry. There are  
only four rooms rented in that wing: Nicholas', Jim's,  
Valerie Kendra's and ours. The other spiritualists,  
and Haslund, are along the middle corridor, and the  
employees are all in the far wing."

"And Haslund and Nicholas didn't arrive until today,"  
Max sighed. He drained his glass and stood. "Well,  
let's go back outside."

She nodded. "As long as you don't have to go back  
upstairs, right?" He grinned. "Are you game for an  
experiment?"

"What did you have in mind?" he asked warily.

"I'll follow you, but not too close, and we'll try to  
catch him in the act."

Max shrugged again. "Why not? It's worth a try," he  
agreed, peering out the window. "But later...  
Nicholas just left with Haslund." He pulled the  
tracker out of his pocket and activated it.

Shannon nodded and picked up her coat.

* * * * *

Nicholas and Haslund said very little as they tramped  
through the woods. Suddenly, Nicholas' arms flailed  
as he slipped on a patch of ice hidden beneath the  
ankle deep blanket of snow. Haslund grabbed him by  
the arm and steadied him. "Hey, watch it, will ya?"

The IMF agent flashed the other man a grateful look  
and they continued on. The show of gratitude was for  
Haslund's benefit, not the genuine feeling. Sure, the  
terrorist had saved him from what could have been a  
nasty fall, but he had also prevented him from  
planting a small tracking device on one of the nearby  
trees. Max or Grant would be trying to track them  
very soon and without the device, it would be that  
much more difficult.

This time, he leaned against a tree as he stepped over  
a fallen log and when his hand came away, a tiny  
button-sized transmitter was safely nestled in the  
bark. The buttons were activated by changes in  
temperature and, even if Haslund did have some way of  
picking up transmissions, those Nicholas carried would  
be kept silent by his body heat, while the trail he  
had left would be easy for his fellow team members to  
follow. He couldn't just drop them into the snow.   
Grant had warned him that the moisture would damage  
the tiny devices.

Haslund never noticed Nicholas' actions and the two  
men rounded the crest of a hill. Nicholas shivered a  
little as an icy blast of wind slammed into his face,  
but he did not slow his pace.

There was no partnership agreement as far as Haslund  
was concerned and Nicholas knew it. He also knew the  
terrorist would think nothing of killing him to get  
his hands on the missing money. He had to be ready  
for anything.

He had a dart pistol in his coat pocket if it came to  
that, but the glasses he wore wouldn't be much help.

Haslund stopped ahead and was frowning at him. "You  
can't be Airola's kid," he said quietly.

A shiver went down Nicholas' back and he suddenly felt  
as though he had swallowed an enormous block of ice.   
He fingered the small rectangle in his pocket to make  
sure it was still there and tried not to react to  
Haslund's abrupt announcement. If things got bad, and  
he had a terrible feeling they might, he could easily  
hit the larger man with a dart and get away. His  
biggest concern was hitting Haslund with the first  
dart. He knew that, if he missed, he would not get a  
second chance, he would be dead. He almost always hit  
what he aimed at, but he was no marksman. He took the  
distorting glasses off, peered at them critically and  
reached into his pocket as if he were about to clean  
the lenses, but his fingers carefully flipped the dart  
pistol open and he stood ready, waiting to see what  
Haslund would do.

Haslund shook his head. "No, not Airola's kid," he  
muttered. The other man's grey eyes bored deeply into  
Nicholas' dark ones for a moment before he grinned  
broadly. "No offense, Charlie, but your dad was a  
whiner... had a way of making steak look like dog  
food. He was always complaining about something.   
You're quiet, I like that."

Nicholas felt relief flow through him, a wave of  
warmth after the sudden cold. He never said much when  
he was in disguise. He was always too busy  
concentrating on his character. Any wrong word, or  
gesture, could give him away. If anyone asked why he  
was so quiet, he explained he was just tired and would  
be fine once he got some sleep and it usually worked.   
It wasn't far from the truth. That sort of intensity  
was exhausting. He smiled slightly, flipped the  
pistol closed, pulled a tissue from his pocket and  
wiped his glasses.

"Must be from reading all those books, eh? Kirby was  
always talking about how smart his kid was."

Nicholas nodded as he put the glasses back onto his  
nose. "Yes...well," he hedged. "So, where's this  
cave of yours, Haslund?"

"Must be murder playing Poker with you," Haslund  
muttered. He pointed up another small hill. "Up  
there."

* * * * *

Jim Phelps sat with one of the inn's two maids  
discussing appearances of the legendary ghost of  
Jasper Crowley. He was really trying to find out who,  
among the inn's eight employees, had been working  
during the time Zanner and Airola had been at the  
inn. He was not having much luck, though. The  
manager/owner Tom Cochran had bought the inn less than  
five years before. And his wife, who doubled as the  
receptionist and waitress, had of course come with her  
husband. The man Grant had replaced had been there  
less than two years, and the cook less than six  
months. Only Eric Bates, the surly bellman, had  
worked for the inn's former owners, but he had been  
away from the inn on vacation the day Zanner and  
Airola arrived and the man who replaced him had died  
two years ago.

He hoped the others were having better luck. He had  
heard the tape Grant had made of Nicholas' talk with  
Haslund, but the terrorists words did not inspire  
confidence. He stood, thanked the woman and left the  
dining room.

* * * * *

Grant stood, stretched his tired muscles and glared  
down at the trunk before him. He had spent the last  
three hours searching through piles of old newspapers  
and magazines. He had made some fascinating  
discoveries - among them, copies of the first reports  
of Lincoln's assassination and the end of the Civil  
War - but had not found a trace of the missing money.   
He knew any historian would kill to be in his place,  
but after three hours he was admittedly a little  
bored.

His beeper had gone off twice with repair requests  
from the manager. The first hadn't been so bad;  
Phelps wanted him to check the ceiling in his room for  
leaks. It gave them a few moments to compare notes on  
the team's progress, but the second had been a  
disaster!

One of the spiritualists, a pinched, bird-like woman  
named Edna Zor, had reported a clog in her bathroom  
sink. He'd had to dismantle the pipes beneath, and  
while he was lying with his head and shoulders inside  
the cabinet, the stupid woman had turned on one of the  
faucets. He had gotten a large glob of cold cream,  
hair, old toothpaste and who knew what else, right in  
the face. The glob was followed by a gush of hot  
water that soaked him to the waist.

He still groaned when he thought about the snippy  
woman and her "Well, is it fixed yet?" as she stood  
over him.  
He patted at his coveralls and a cloud of dust and  
dirt formed around him. He sneezed violently and took  
shallow breaths until the cloud settled.

Suddenly, he noticed what appeared to be a piece of  
carved lintel fastened to the wall behind a large  
antique wardrobe. He frowned, wondering why he hadn't  
seen it earlier but, as he approached, he saw the  
reason. If he stood directly in front of the wardrobe  
\- as he had while he had been searching it - a round  
panel attached to the top of the wardrobe blocked his  
view, but if he stood off to one side, there it was.   
What was it, exactly? A window boarded up long ago  
and forgotten? Or, perhaps a door?

Curious now, he walked over and examined the edges and  
bottom of the wardrobe. As far as he could tell, it  
had not been fastened down in any way. He wondered  
what he would discover if he moved it.

Grant carefully slid his fingers into the narrow  
opening between it and the wall and pulled. Nothing.   
He braced himself and tried again. It was no use, the  
wardrobe was far too heavy for him to move without  
help. Something soft brushed against his leg and,  
despite himself, he cried out in surprise. He looked  
down to see the hotel's sleek grey tabby, Spud,  
looking up at him with bright yellow eyes that glinted  
with intelligence. 

"How did you get up here?" he asked, picking up the  
friendly feline and looking into the gleaming eyes.   
He was certain he'd closed the attic door behind him. 

 

The cat yawned at him, looking as though he were  
grinning maniacally. "M'ow?"

Grant set down the cat and watched as Spud turned and  
walked through a narrow opening that he hadn't noticed  
before. Grant knelt and aimed the small flashlight he  
carried into the narrow space. He could see a paneled  
wooden door standing slightly ajar with a heavy  
looking brass knob. He had studied the inn's  
blueprints carefully, but those plans had been made  
less than fifteen years ago. Who knew what might have  
been overlooked in a building more than two hundred  
years old.

* * * * *

Nicholas and Martin Haslund had wandered around the  
cave for more than three hours before the terrorist  
admitted he was giving up for the day and they  
returned to the inn.

After he had freshened up, Nicholas headed for the  
dining room. 'Mr. Boyd' and the 'Bensons' had become  
friends and, when they noticed 'Charles Airola'  
sitting alone at one of the nearby tables, they asked  
him to join them. The spiritualists had gone out for  
the afternoon and Haslund and the IMF team would be  
the only guests at the inn for a few hours.

Haslund had not come down yet; so after the waitress  
came, took their order and disappeared into the  
kitchen, the team was free to talk.

Shannon and Max told Nicholas and Jim the results of  
their experiment. Shannon had followed Max at a safe  
distance just to see what would happen. Just as Max  
reached a short stretch of corridor not far from  
Nicholas' room he suddenly flailed his arms and seemed  
to throw himself into the wall.

Max had been prepared for it this time, however and  
had flung his arms up in front of his face. He hadn't  
been hurt, but he had gotten the wind knocked out of  
him.

"Shannon, I think you should talk to Valerie Kendra,"  
Phelps advised. "There's obviously something...  
unusual going on. I hate to admit it, but I'm  
beginning to think there might be more to the stories  
about Jasper Crowley than we bargained for."

"We've all had strange things happen to us since we  
arrived," Nicholas put in.

Phelps frowned. "No, Nicholas, all of us, except  
Shannon."

Max looked up. "Hey, that's right!" He turned to  
glare at the female agent. "Why hasn't this  
'Jasper' bothered you?"

"Max, don't let this get to you. It's not as if it  
was something she was doing," Phelps said, holding up  
a hand.

The big Australian took a deep, calming breath.   
"Yeah, I guess you're right, Jim. I just wish he'd  
throw somebody else into a wall for a change."

* * * * *

Shannon looked around as she stepped quietly into the  
dining room. Valerie Kendra and her group of  
spiritualists had returned and were seated around the  
largest of the tables taking notes as a thin wiry  
little man with red hair spoke. 

"...been no response to the Automatic Writing as yet,  
but perhaps tonight."

"Thank you, Willie," Kendra said. She made a quick  
note on her tablet and turned in Shannon's direction.   
"Hello, Mrs. Benson."

"I'm sorry, I didn't mean to interrupt...."

Kendra waved the apology away. "No, no, we'd just  
finished, as a matter of fact. How is your husband?   
He wasn't badly hurt, I hope."

Shannon shook her head. "He's fine. I... just needed  
to talk to you for a moment."

One of the women frowned. "She's got trouble."

"That's enough, Maureen," Valerie snapped. "What can  
we do for you?"

"Could you tell me about Jasper Crowley?" Shannon  
asked, taking a seat. "I have a feeling...."

"He's behind these 'attacks' your husband's been  
having," Kendra finished for her. "Normally, I'd tell  
you to consult a doctor, but your husband seems to be  
in excellent health."

Maureen snorted. "I'll say."

Valerie gave the other woman a dirty look and turned  
back to Shannon. "What did you want to know about  
Jasper Crowley?"

"Just... what happened in this house? What was Jasper  
like?"

"A religious tyrant and a wife beater," Valerie  
answered. "He forced his wife and servants to attend  
the services he conducted every morning in the little  
chapel he had built. You and your husband must have  
seen it while you were wondering around earlier."

"Yes. It doesn't look much like a chapel now. What  
happened to it?"

"According to the records, Jasper's nephew sold all  
the religious artifacts to pay off his gambling  
debts. Jasper'd been dead a good five years by that  
time."

"What was his wife's name?"

"Marie. She was a French girl Jasper met in Boston  
and brought home with him. Her diary is full of  
entries telling exactly what she thought of him. She  
married him for his money and they both knew it.   
Their son, Michael, was born in 1870 and Jasper hoped  
the child would settle her down. It did, but, when  
the boy fell into a well and drowned, Marie was in  
mourning for months. She was convinced Jasper had had  
a hand in it. Nothing was ever proven, of course and,  
since Jasper was such an important man in the  
community, the matter wasn't really investigated.

"It was about that time William Hartliep showed up,  
looking for a job. Marie was 'quite taken with him'  
as they used to say. William kept trying to get her  
to run away with him and, after about a month, she  
finally decided she'd had more than enough of Jasper.   
She sent for William in the middle of the night and  
Jasper caught them together. He wasn't a very big  
man, but he managed to slam William against one of the  
walls in the second floor corridor hard enough to  
knock him unconscious. Marie finally stood up to her  
husband. She chased Jasper down the corridor with a  
poker and he locked himself in his rooms. When she  
got back to William, he'd come to and they left the  
house with only the clothes on their backs."

"Where did they go?"

"Mexico. Marie and William were married and, over the  
next twelve years, he and Marie had ten children.   
Jasper never forgave his wife and Hartliep. He had  
men track them, but William always managed to buy them  
off. Marie lived, believe it or not, happily ever  
after," Kendra finished with a chuckle.

"And Jasper?"

"That's another story. He never remarried. He spent  
almost all his time in the chapel. His servants stole  
him blind and abandoned him. He died broke and  
bitter. He still is, I suppose, since he's gone after  
your husband."

"But, why Max? There are other men here."

Kendra shrugged. "Who knows, but don't let it bother  
you. Jasper's a pretty harmless ghost compared to  
some."

"Harmless? By whose account? He's been terrorizing  
Max since our first night in this place. I just wish  
he'd stop or, at least, go after somebody else for a  
while."

"Well, that's up to Jasper, I'm afraid," Maureen put  
in. "Sometimes, it's hard to understand just why the  
spirits do things."

Shannon stood. She flashed the spiritualists a  
smile. "Thank you."

"I hope we've answered some of your questions," Willie  
said.

Shannon nodded. "Some," she admitted. She turned and  
left the room. She was convinced now that it was  
Jasper Crowley who was throwing Max around, though she  
still didn't know exactly why.

* * * * *

That night, after the inn's guests and employees had  
gone to bed, the IMF team quietly made their way to  
the attic. Phelps and Shannon held flashlights as  
Grant, Nicholas and Max set about pulling the wardrobe  
out from the wall. It was no easy job, the wardrobe  
was made of solid oak and very heavy. It had also  
been standing in the same spot for many years and  
there were small dents in the attic floor where its  
weight had compressed the floorboards.

"I hope this is worth it," Max said with a grunt.

"This is the only place in the inn we haven't  
searched," Grant reminded him. "I saw a door.   
There's got to be something here. Okay, ready?"

This time there was a loud screech and the wardrobe  
moved slightly.

"Wait a minute," Nicholas urged. He took off the  
denim jacket he had been wearing and laid it on one of  
the trunks, then got back in position. "Okay."

They tried again. The wardrobe moved! It was only a  
few inches, but it seemed like a mile.

"One more time," Grant insisted. "We almost got it."

They managed almost a foot before they fell back  
against the wall breathing hard. Max took a deep  
breath and shoved the heavy piece of furniture another  
few inches. They could get past it now.

Phelps moved the flashlight closer to look at the  
thick door. "Well, Grant, I think you should do the  
honors."

The black operative smiled, his teeth gleaming in the  
dim light. He reached forward and pushed the door  
open farther. It seemed funny that the door moved so  
easily beneath his hand after their struggles with the  
wardrobe. Shannon handed him her flashlight and he  
shone it through the opening. Through the swirling  
cloud of dust, he could just make out a three foot  
section of a landing with steps leading down into the  
darkness.

"Well?" Nicholas asked.

"It looks like a servant's stairway. It probably  
leads down into the kitchen."

"Great," Max snorted. "All that for a servant's  
stairway."

"It could lead somewhere else, I suppose," Grant  
muttered.

"Where?" Shannon asked.

"I don't know," he admitted, then grinned. "Let's  
have a look."

"After all these years, it can't be safe."

"Nicholas is right, Grant. Those steps could go at  
any moment," Phelps said.

"Then, the rest of you can stay here, but I'd like to  
check this out."

"Okay, I'll go," Nicholas volunteered with a sigh.   
"Max?"

The Australian shook his head. "No way. If Jasper is  
after me, I'm not going to walk right into it."

Nicholas chuckled. "Oh, come on, Max."

"Max has a point," Phelps agreed. "It might be safer  
if he stayed here."

Grant shrugged and, still carrying Shannon's  
flashlight, he and Nicholas slowly made their way down  
the dust covered steps. They reached what they  
assumed was the second floor landing safely and spent  
a moment looking around.

"That's odd," Nicholas said, concerned. "There's no  
door."

"Look over here. It was boarded up. A long time ago,  
too. This staircase doesn't show up on any of the  
blueprints I studied.

"Seems like a perfectly good stairway."

"When they made this place into an inn, they must have  
decided there were too many entrances to the attic and  
had it walled up to keep the guests out. You ready to  
go on?"

"Well, as long as we don't find any moldering  
corpses."

"Ugh. You've been watching too many bad horror  
movies."

They laughed quietly and continued on down the  
stairs. Suddenly, there was a loud crack and a pop as  
one of the steps gave way under Grant's weight. He  
let out a grunt and the flashlight slipped from his  
fingers as he tried to stop his fall. It bounced and  
rolled as it went on down the stairs, then went out.

"Grant?!" Nicholas called softly, but urgently, into  
the blackness.

"I'm okay."

"You're sure?"

"Yeah. My foot's caught."

"Damn."

"I'm not hurt. Can you get some light?"

Nicholas pulled a cigarette lighter from his jeans  
pocket and lit it. He moved down and there was a  
little confusion as he tried to avoid the broken step,  
but once he'd gotten past Grant, it wasn't too  
difficult to locate the flashlight and it took only a  
few moments more to get it working again. Nicholas'  
communicator chirped and he pulled it from his  
pocket. "Yes, Jim?"

"Is everything all right?" Phelps asked. "We heard a  
bang."

"Just a broken step. We're okay."

"Good."

Nicholas pocketed the communicator and turned to look  
down at where Grant's foot was caught. The board had  
broken near one side and his foot had fallen through.   
The pieces had come up on either side of Grant's foot  
and it couldn't be removed without pulling, at least,  
one of the boards up.

"This is not going to be easy," Nicholas remarked.

Grant was sitting on one of the stairs now. "I think  
if you put some weight on either of the pieces, I  
should be able to pull my foot out."

Nicholas peered at the boards and frowned. 

Okay." He stepped on one side of the break and leaned  
into it. The gap widened and Grant pulled his foot  
free. "How's it feel?"

Grant wiggled it experimentally. "No damage."

Nicholas sighed in relief.

"Come on," Grant urged and headed down the narrow  
staircase again.

Nicholas sighed again and followed.

The staircase stopped at another small landing.

"This exit's been boarded up, too."

Grant looked around, trying to figure the distance  
they'd traveled in his head. "I think we're on the  
first floor. We should be near the dining room." He  
shone the flashlight down at the floor again and  
crouched. He could see another narrow opening in the  
wall. That explained how the cat had managed to get  
into the stairwell. He pointed to another bank of  
stairs leading downward. "This should lead to the  
basement. Come on."

"And if it's another dead end?" Nicholas asked.

Grant chuckled. "Dead end? You're starting to sound  
like Max." He shrugged. "We won't know till we get  
there, will we? Come on."

The stairs finally bottomed out onto another landing.   
There was a paneled door directly in front of them.   
Grant and Nicholas exchanged side-long glances.   
Nicholas made an "after you" gesture and Grant  
grinned. He reached out and turned the knob. They  
both jumped as Nicholas' communicator went off again.

"Nicholas, how's it going?" Shannon asked, worriedly.

"Fine, Shannon. We're at the bottom. I'll call you  
if we find anything." He flashed the other man a grin  
and Grant slowly opened the door. They were enveloped  
by a burst of warm, moist, stale air.

Grant shone the light around a room about twenty feet  
square. The brick walls were covered with mold. The  
end of a square tube came down through the ceiling. A  
crude box was propped over the end of the tube by a  
two by four.

"What is that?" Nicholas asked.

"A laundry chute. My grandparents had one in their  
house in New York. Jamie and I tried to slide down it  
once." He chuckled at the memory. "Got some  
splinters in some pretty embarrassing places, too."

Nicholas winced in sympathy. "That must have hurt."

"Not as much as it did when Dad found out about it."

Nicholas laughed. "I'll bet. Why do you suppose they  
walled this up?"

Grant paced around the room. "They must have done it  
when they installed the new furnace," he felt along  
one of the walls, "to make it run more efficiently.   
Doesn't look like there's much down here, though. A  
couple of trunks here in the corner." He bent down  
and opened the first of the two trunks and shone his  
light inside. It was filled with decaying petticoats  
and dresses. His hand fell on something hard and he  
pulled it out into the light. "Hey, Nicholas, have a  
look at this!"

The dark haired agent took a flat square object from  
the other man and peered at it in disbelief.   
“No wonder...."

He never finished his sentence. The room, which had  
been almost too hot a moment before was suddenly ice  
cold. The men shivered as the flashlight went out  
again, plunging the room into inky blackness. Before  
either of them could get a word out, a man's face  
appeared, floating above them.

Nicholas backed away, instinctively, as the figure's  
blue eyes bored fiercely into his own. A pair of  
hands reached toward him and he threw himself  
backward. He felt the two by four strike his shoulder  
and then, he was falling. The agent landed with a  
grunt flat on his back on the hard brick floor. He  
let out a yell as something light and delicate  
fluttered down onto him. He batted blindly at the  
flying objects, trying desperately to keep them out of  
his face. Something heavy landed on his chest and  
tiny pinpoints of light flickered across his retinas.   
Everything swam for a moment, and then the flashlight  
was back on, the room was bathed in light and Grant  
was leaning over him, his face worried. "Nicholas?"

"What happened?" he asked.

"You did it, man!" Grant answered excitedly. "You did  
it!"

Nicholas sat up, slowly. "Did what?"

"You found the money, that's what. Look!"

Nicholas looked down at his lap. He was buried to the  
waist in five, ten, and twenty dollar bills. He  
smiled, broadly. "Oh."

"Oh?" Grant asked, laughing. He stood and bent to  
help the other man to his feet. He pulled his  
communicator out of his pocket. "Jim!"

The response was almost immediate. "Yes, Grant. Are  
you two all right?"

Grant flashed Nicholas a concerned look, but at his  
nod he answered. "Yeah, we're both okay. We found  
the money and a surprise."

"That's good news." Phelps said, relieved.

"We'll find something to put the money in and we'll be  
right up." Grant stuffed the communicator back into  
his pocket.

They looked through the other trunk and found a couple  
of large carpetbags and quickly stuffed the money into  
them. Grant shone the flashlight up into the laundry  
chute to check for any stragglers as Nicholas headed  
for the stairs.

"I guess we owe Jasper a thank you," Grant said as  
they went back upstairs with their burden.

Nicholas nodded. His chest still hurt a little from  
the impact of the full money bag that had been stuffed  
into the laundry chute, but he was just glad to be  
getting out of the basement.

They were covered in dust and gunk when they reached  
the top of the stairs.

"What happened down there?" Phelps asked.

Nicholas sat down on a trunk, winded; while Grant told  
them about the ghost's most recent appearance and how,  
thanks to the ghost, Nicholas had literally stumbled  
into the money's hiding place.

"Oh yeah! Max, you've got to see this!" Grant said,  
pulling the object he'd found in the trunk out of the  
front of his coveralls and holding it out to him.

Max looked down at a blurred tintype of a man standing  
beside a black horse. It wasn't until he peered at  
the man's face that he saw why Nicholas and Grant were  
grinning at him. "It's me!" he said, in disbelief.

"No, it's William Hartliep!" Shannon whispered.

"No wonder Jasper went after you, Max," Phelps put  
in. "You're a dead ringer for the man who ran off  
with his wife."

Max groaned. "Jim, don't say dead," he pleaded.

"And he came after me when I held the picture, so be  
careful," Nicholas warned.

Phelps smiled. "I think we should all get some rest.   
We've still got a few things to wrap up tomorrow."

* * * * *

The night passed without any of the bizarre  
disturbances of the night before. It seemed as though  
Jasper had worn himself out during the attack in the  
basement and the team slept peacefully.

Max and Shannon, carrying one of the money bags,  
slipped out of the inn at dawn and made their way to  
the cave Nicholas and Haslund were going to explore.

"Mornin'" Haslund said as he met Nicholas in the  
lobby. He handed the IMF agent a rope and one of the  
high powered flashlights they'd used the day before.   
"I hope you got some sleep."

Nicholas shrugged. "Enough."

"I didn't. I kept hearing weird noises in the walls.   
Sounded like rats."

"I'm sorry to hear that." Nicholas knew exactly what  
had caused the sounds Haslund had heard the night  
before, but he wasn't about to say anything about it.   
"Are you sure you want to go ahead with this today?"

"What are you, nuts? Of course, I want to go. It's  
got to be in one of the caves.

They left the inn and walked off through the woods.  
Nicholas hoped he was ready for anything Haslund might  
do. The heavy sheepskin jacket he wore concealed a  
bullet proof vest. He just prayed the other team  
members would be in position when Haslund made his  
move. He knew they would be, but he couldn't help  
being a little nervous.

When they arrived at the cave entrance, Nicholas and  
Haslund found that the cave split off into two  
separate passages. Nicholas took the opening to the  
left without being too obvious about it, while Haslund  
made his way on the right.

Max had contacted Nicholas a short time before he was  
to meet Haslund in the lobby and had explained where  
to find the bag of money he and Shannon had hidden in  
the cave.

The "room" Nicholas walked into was fairly large.   
There was a sinkhole toward the back wall that looked  
treacherous. Rocks of all shapes and sizes were  
strewn over the rough floor.

He spotted a lone sneaker track off near one side that  
his fellow team members had missed. Shannon's, he  
guessed, judging by the size. He walked over and  
stepped on it obliterating the smaller footprint with  
his own. He spent the next few moments checking the  
area for other possible giveaways, then sat down on a  
large rock to wait.

He knew Grant had followed them and would soon be  
taking up a position just outside the cave entrance.   
Max and Shannon were hiding behind a sofa sized rock  
nearby. He wouldn't have spotted them at all, if Max  
hadn't poked his hand up and flashed him an "okay"  
sign.

He waited for about ten minutes, then stood and called  
for Haslund. The terrorist came running.

"What did you find?"

"Look here," Nicholas answered. He pointed to what  
appeared to be a random pile of rocks.

"I don't see anything."

Nicholas crouched and tugged at something. He pushed  
some of the rocks aside and tugged again. Gradually,  
one corner of a canvas money bag made its appearance.   
"You know, this would go a lot faster if you helped,"  
Nicholas snapped.

Haslund set the high powered flashlight he carried  
down on a rock and bent to give the other man a hand.   
With the two of them working at it, it took only a few  
more moments to free the bag.

"I wonder how much of it is here," Nicholas wondered.

Haslund looked up. "This isn't all of it. There's  
got to be more somewhere."

"Then, let's keep looking."

Haslund pulled a gun from inside his coat. "I thought  
you didn't know where the money was."

"I didn't."

"You found this easily enough."

"If I were trying to cheat you, Haslund, would I have  
called you in here?"

"No. That's true, you wouldn't. You and your  
Ethiopian charity cases! Let 'em starve! We don't  
need any more of their kind. We've got too damn many  
of 'em runnin' around as it is. If you think you're  
leaving here with that, you better think again."

Nicholas stood and threw down the handful of bills he  
had pulled from the bag. "Now, wait a minute,  
Haslund, we had a bargain."

"And you believed me? Damn it, Airola, you're just as  
gullible as your old man. How do you think you got  
all that money for college, huh? I made an  
arrangement with Kirby and now, I want a return on my  
investment." Haslund poked the gun into Nicholas'  
ribs and pushed him toward a ledge off to their  
right. "Poor tourist died in a bad fall in one of the  
local caves. Sounds like a good headline to me."

Nicholas struggled against the larger man. He heard  
Haslund grunt in pain as his fist connected with the  
other man's jaw and then, everything seemed to flip  
into slow motion. He heard Shannon scream as he felt  
himself falling. His fingers caught on a small  
outcropping and he held on. Looking up, he saw  
Haslund spin toward the source of the scream. The  
ledge started to crumble and Haslund was suddenly  
falling toward him. A piece of rock from the  
crumbling cave floor clipped Nicholas on the forehead  
and the cave faded around him as his fingers slipped  
from the ledge. 

"Ah hell!" Max hissed. He activated his communicator  
as he rushed toward the opening. "Grant get in here,  
NOW!"

"On my way."

"What is it, Max?" Phelps asked.

"Haslund's thrown Nicholas off a ledge." Max shone  
the light down into the opening. "I can see him.   
He's about ten or twelve feet down."

"Is he alive?" Phelps asked.

"I can't tell. He's not moving."

"Where's Haslund?"

"He went over the side, too, but I don't see him. He  
must have gone to the bottom. We'll call you back  
once we've gotten Nicholas out."

Shannon came forward, but he pushed her back as Grant  
came in carrying a rope and another flashlight.

Grant handed one end of the rope to Max and leaned  
toward the edge. "Nicholas is alive," he reported.   
"I just saw him move his arm."

"Somebody's got to go down there and get him," Max  
said. "If he starts moving around too much, he'll  
roll right off."

Grant glanced over at Shannon. "It's got to be you;  
you're the only one light enough. We don't know how  
much weight that ledge can take."

"Okay," she agreed.

Grant tied the rope around her waist and the men  
slowly lowered her down into the opening. The rope's  
movement against the edge sent a shower of dirt and  
rocks down onto Nicholas.

A moment later, she stepped gingerly onto the ledge  
beside the agent. He started to move slightly as he  
regained consciousness.

"Nicholas, don't move," she said, quietly. She took  
his hand and patted his face, trying to get him to  
wake up a little faster.

"There's no time for that, Shannon," Grant called.

Max tossed another rope down to her. "Tie this around  
his chest. Hurry!"

Shannon took the rope and started to lift Nicholas'  
shoulders. She froze. The ledge she stood on was  
starting to rock and sway. There was no time for  
gentleness now, she decided, and shoved the injured  
man's shoulders through the loop she'd made in the  
rope. She pulled his arms through and pulled the loop  
tight.

Max and Grant heard her scream as the ropes they held  
suddenly jerked in their hands. They tightened their  
grip on the ropes and pulled against the weight of  
their friends, wincing as the ropes burned into their  
palms.

"Shannon, I'm going to pull you up first," Grant  
shouted. He braced himself and slowly raised her to  
the ledge. "Don't worry, I've got you," he reassured  
her.

Shannon's head appeared over the edge and Grant leaned  
forward to help her up onto the side of the chasm. He  
quickly pulled her well away from the edge and they  
both went to help Max pull Nicholas up.

Soon, Nicholas was lying on the cave floor and Max and  
Grant carried him away from the edge and sat him down  
carefully with his back propped against one of the  
cave walls, then they plopped down beside their  
friend. They sat, trying to get their breath back as  
Grant's communicator started chirping insistently. He  
took it out of his pocket and handed it to Shannon.

"Yes, Jim."

"What's going on? Are all of you all right?" The  
team leader seemed almost frantic for news.

"We're fine, Jim. Nicholas is still pretty dazed, but  
he's safe. We'll join you in a little while."

* * * * *

Phelps was pacing the length of the lobby  
impatiently. It had been more than forty-five minutes  
since his team's last message and he was very worried.

Finally, the patio door swung open and Shannon and  
rant stepped through, carrying the money bag. They  
looked dirty and tired but otherwise okay.

Phelps' blue eyes narrowed with concern as Max entered  
with his arm around Nicholas. The smaller man was  
pale and obviously more than a little rattled. A  
heavy trickle of blood ran down one side of his face  
from his temple to his jaw and he was limping, letting  
Max carry most of his weight.

The receptionist came out of the little office, let  
out a peep of distress and dashed back into it.

Max let Nicholas down slowly into one of the chairs  
and straightened. The blond, seeing the expression on  
the team leader's craggy face, held up his hands to  
silence him. "It looks a lot worse than it is," Max  
insisted.

Phelps' frown deepened as he noticed the marks the  
rope had burned into them.

Nicholas took a deep breath and opened his eyes. "I'm  
okay, Jim," he said quietly.

"My God, what happened?" the manager asked as he  
appeared with the receptionist.

"He took a bad fall," Max responded.

"Yes," Nicholas agreed, dazedly. "I slipped... lost  
my glasses...." He patted Max's arm. "Thank you."

"What about your friend?" the receptionist asked.   
"You left with Mr. Haslund."

Nicholas shrugged. "I don't know..." he said. "He...  
left."

"Look, there'll be time for all this later," Phelps  
interrupted. He could tell Nicholas was having  
trouble concentrating. "Can't you see this man needs  
a doctor?"

The manager turned without another word and went to  
the phone on the reception desk.

* * * * *

An hour later, Nicholas was propped up on the bed in  
his room. The cut on his temple had been stitched up  
and covered by a gauze pad. An elastic bandage  
circled the ankle he had twisted landing on the second  
ledge. And, even though the vest and jacket had  
protected him from any serious damage, the rope had  
still managed to crack a couple of his ribs when the  
ledge collapsed. The doctor had taped them tightly  
and warned him to take things easy for a few days. He  
ached all over but he would recover.

Shannon and Max sat on the foot of the bed and Phelps  
had perched himself in the room's only chair. Grant  
was at the desk, typing something into his computer.

"So, what's going to happen to the money?" Nicholas  
asked.

"That's where things get tricky," Grant answered,  
turning from the computer. "No one was killed in the  
robbery... The guards weren't seriously injured... No  
weapons were used...."

"So, the statute of limitations has run out, by now,"  
Phelps added. "And the only one who has a real claim  
to it is Charles Airola... the drug dealers certainly  
aren't going to claim it."

"Well, possession is nine tenths..." Max said with a  
chuckle.

"Charles Airola wants the money to go into the famine  
relief fund," Nicholas said, repeating what he had  
been told during the brief conversation he'd had with  
the man at the beginning of the mission; before he  
left San Francisco. "I think it's a good way to use  
the money."

Phelps nodded. "I agree. It's a bit ironic... using  
a drug lord's money to feed starving people."

Max smiled. "Yeah, life from death. I like that!"


End file.
